Paul Melko - The Walls of the Universe

“What universe are you from?” Thomas asked.

“Seven-four-three-three,” Prime said.

“Yeah? I don’t think we’ve got anyone from there. What did they nab you for? Hacking? Propagandizing?”

“I don’t know.”

Oscar looked at him sharply. “A dark grab. What makes you so special?”

“Nothing,” Prime said.

“Yeah,” said Oscar. “Nothing special.”

They walked over a small hill and came to a river that cut through a shallow valley. Workers, standing knee-deep, were panning the water. Others were hacking at a seam of coal they had opened on the hillside, already half-exposed by the river. There were a dozen guards watching up- and downstream. A couple were positioned on the hills.

Thomas went to speak with a few of the workers, leaving Oscar with Prime.

“Gold for conductors. Coal for our steam engine,” Oscar said. “We’re thinking about a trip to the old Fort Pitt area to mine some iron.”

Thomas came back to them holding a small nugget of gold. “A few meters of wire, at least,” he said.

He led them up the far hill of the valley. Prime struggled to understand what they were doing: reconstructing a technological world in a primitive earth. Were they colonists? Were they running from something? Hiding here? They must have their own devices, maybe ones that worked right.

Oscar said, “We think we can build a transporter in about a hundred years. You’ll still be a young man, and if you have any children after the sterilization wears off, your children might get back home.”

Prime stopped. These people were from high-tech worlds. The primitive living wasn’t a choice. These people were stranded, just like him.

“You people don’t have a device? A transporter of your own?” he asked.

Thomas barked a laugh. “Of course they wouldn’t let us have a device.”

“But I have one,” Prime said, then cut himself off. It was too late. Thomas and Oscar turned on him.

“You fucking liar,” Oscar said.

“Yeah,” Prime said. “Yeah. I was just kidding.” His hand went inside his shirt, toggling the button for the next universe. He was on natural land, no man-made depressions. Prime would be all right if he transferred out here.

“What you got there?” Thomas said. Oscar grabbed him by the arm.

“Nothing!” Prime cried. He couldn’t reach the lever, his arm caught in Thomas’ viselike grip. Prime tried with his other hand, but Oscar batted it away.

Thomas nodded at Oscar, who pulled up Prime’s coat and shirt.

They stared at the device strapped to Prime’s chest, their faces stunned.

Oscar said, “Jesus, he has a portable.”

“Where did you get that?”

“You stupid kid! What the fuck are you doing with a portable?” Oscar yelled, reaching under Prime’s shirt for the device.

Prime kicked, connected with something, and rolled away.

Thomas’ grip found Prime’s shoulder and pulled him back like he was a sock puppet.

He pressed a knee against Prime’s throat. He pulled a knife.

“Do you believe this?” he asked Oscar.

“Fuck it, no.”

The knife cut at the straps holding the device. Prime flinched. He figured the next slice would open his belly.

Thomas stood with the device, leaving Prime to gasp and hold his throat.

Thomas and Oscar held the device between them, marveling, ignoring Prime as they had before.

“Frigate is going to shit when he sees this.”

“We’re going back home.”

“Home? We’re going anywhere we damn well please.”

Prime pushed himself off the ground.

They stood holding the device as if it were a baby. Didn’t they know how much trouble it had caused him? Didn’t they know it was broken ?

But Prime had earned that broken device; he had traded his own life for it, and damn it, these assholes weren’t going to take it away.

Prime lunged at the device, snagging it from Thomas’ grip. In a moment he was past them.

“Hey!”

A hand caught his leg, and he went down, Oscar and Thomas atop him.

“You’re dead now,” Oscar said. Thomas’ knife loomed above him.

Prime’s finger found the lever. He pressed it.

The world shifted in an explosion of blood. He squeezed his eyes shut. Hot liquid covered his chest and legs. Something hard-the broken knifepoint-scratched his cheek.

Prime stood, scrambling away, his gorge rising.

He wiped his eyes clear, and looked at what had come through with him. Thomas’ hand, the front of Oscar’s chest, and a foot littered the ground, bits of the men who had been in the radius of the field when Prime had pulled the button. Looking at the flesh, he realized that Oscar was dead and Thomas was maimed. On that primitive world, with a severed hand, he would probably die.

Prime spewed his lunch onto the ground.

After his stomach was empty, he stood and cleaned himself as well as possible. He’d found others who knew of travel between worlds, and they’d tried to kill him. Fuck them, he thought.

He had thought at first to bury the pieces of body but decided to leave them for the animals. What sympathy did the men deserve from him? Prime’d picked the next universe and left them there to rot.

He looked down, realizing Abby was asleep. He lifted her gently into her crib, where she rustled for a moment, then lay still. Sometimes it was best just to keep still, to stop running, and take the best bolt-hole you could find. The universes were too dangerous.

Prime could barely keep his eyes open the next morning. He flubbed his assembly twice, dropping bolts into the washer tub and having to stop the line to fetch them. He ignored the glares of his coworkers. Fuck ’em, he thought. Fuck ’ em all. He ’d be out of there as soon as things started shaping up.

Lunch didn’t come soon enough, and when it did, his mind wouldn’t focus on the words. Stephen King made it seem so easy. Prime had seen the movie twice, and he’d even skimmed the book. Writing The Shining should have been simple. He was taking every lunch hour to write, or rather remember. And there was no King in this universe. Prime had been sure to check. No way was the guy going to show up and accuse Prime of plagiarism. He should have brought a paperback edition with him.

“Hey.”

What had happened in Room 237?

“Hey! Rayburn!”

Prime looked up. A teenager he vaguely recognized was addressing him from the next table where he sat with a few friends, all his age.

“You knocked up Casey Nicholson, didn’t you?”

Prime ran cold. His hands twisted into fists.

Carson. Ted Carson. Prime remembered him now. The asshole who had gotten him expelled from school, or rather Johnny Farm Boy expelled.

Prime forced his anger down. He exhaled, then smiled. “Aren’t you Ted Carson? The famous Ted Carson?”

Carson looked at him with confusion. “You know who I am, Rayburn!”

“You’re famous!”

“What are you talking about?” His bluster was fading away.

“A lot of animals go missing in your neighborhood, I hear,” Prime said.

Ted’s face paled.

“You know anything about that? Seen any evidence, maybe?”

Prime smiled as Carson ’s neck tendons stood out. His jaw was so tightly clenched he couldn’t speak. His friends cast glances at him; what had started as some gentle bullying had taken a turn they couldn’t understand.

Prime could.

“What are you practicing for, killer?” Prime asked softly.

Carson broke the stare and glanced left and right at his friends. He stood and stormed off.

“Screw you, Rayburn,” he shouted.

Prime shrugged and laughed. He glared at the remaining pack of summer interns.

“Well?” he said. “What do you want?”